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PORTRAITS, INC We represent 200 of today's leadmg portrait painters and sculptors 41 EAST 57th STREET NEW YORK 10022 with amputated legs could still waggle the toes which by that time were in the dustbIn. He squinted, and was sure that his eyes were there. "N urse, have I any eyes?" "How do you mean? No, I am afraid they were both taken out, they had to b " e. As his con valescence progresses, and "It was now so ordinary to be blind," he learns to listen: "Every wind was dif- ferent, and as he listened to their com- ing and to their going, there was rhythm in their play. In the fields, be- yond where the trees would be, a man cracked his whip, and a cow lowed. The long grass copied the trees with a tiny dry rustling." And as he attempts to participate in the world again and help a female servant move a heavy lily pot, a world of sensuous touches im- pinges maddeningly: Then, as he was groping forward again, the lily poked gently into his face, trying to tickle him, and shuddering, he pushed the thing away. He leant forward further to where he felt her presence and the stand. Her breath burned in his face for a moment and bathing in her nearness he leant further forward still) in the hopes of finding her, but she dropped his hand and it fell on the slick edges of the pot in which the lily grew. Despair was coming over him again, it was too awkward, this pursuit of her under a lily, when all at once her arm mysteriously came up over his mouth, glowing and cool at the same time, and the scent was im- mediately stronger, tangible almost, so that he wanted to bite it. But we are not immersed in John Haye's blindness, as we were in his diary. The visual world around him- whose presiding deity, the sun, is evoked on nearly every page-persIsts, de- scribed in a kind of exultation by an author who now manifests powers and a range far beyond those of his hero. John Haye's blindness is seen from the outsIde, as not only a private but a so- cIal event, affecting the lives of those around him-foremost, that of his guardian and stepmother, Emily Haye. The master novelist emerges from the fledgling writer in the early scene wherein this woman, "red with forty years reckless exposure to the sun," an a vid gardener and meddler in village affairs from her eminence as hostess of the estate called Barwood, talks to John and Introduces another stream of con- SCIousness in to the book. To his ago- nized, fitful comprehension of his blind- ness is added her own anXlOUS concern: "Her feelings had betrayed her. The great thing was to keep his mind off. One must go on talking, and it was so hard not to harp on it. A silence would be so terrible. There was always her [John's true mother, who died when JANUARY 1, 1 9 7 9 he was born] between them." Difficult servan ts, a senile dog, the local Nursing Association, poor village church attend- ance, the flourishing garden, the hap- pier past, the need to answer the sym- pathy letters she has received, the par- son's wife)s need to borrow fifty tea- cups-all these worries mingle with her fretful worry for the boy ("They must find some occupation for the boy, he could not be left there rankling. Mak- ing fancy baskets, or pen-wipers, all those things blinded soldiers did, some- thing to do"). Having accomplished and decided nothing, she finally sinks gratefully into one of Green's favorite conditions, the awareness of nothing. "She rubbed her face slowly in her hands, when she stopped it was redder still. Then she sat for some time look- ing at nothing at all, thinking of noth- ing at all. The specks kept on rising in the sunlight." Harassed and disarmed by tragedy though she is, and without any feeling for her stepson stronger than responsibility for him, Emily Haye stirs herself and in the course of the novel does the necessary selfless thing- she sells her beloved Barwood and moves the blind would-be writer to London, as he asks. Her thoughts orbit absurdly, yet she homes in on the right course; in her distracted decency, she is the first Henry Green character She is a stepmother, perhaps, because Green at that tender age could gaze at ma- ternity only through some squint of untruth, or because the budding artist in him insisted on being in ven tive. In "Pack My Bag," he tells how he acquired "the sense to bring others in when I wrote about myself in or- der to blame as much as possible on others" Green brings in others, in "Blind- ness," besides the curiously distanced mother figure: a servant population anticipatory of "Loving," a grim yet somehow sexual nurse, and, most elab- orately, the defrocked Reverend Ent- whistle and his daughter Joan, whom the enamored John insists on calling ] une. (This sort of punning nameplay, which in "Concluding" gives all the girls names beginning with "M" and in "Caught" calls two London FIre Brigade volunteers Pye and Roe, is not Green's most winning trick.) In a long section called, too archly, "Picture Postcardism," Green overwrites with a Laurentian vengeance, and enshrines in a lush wealth of nature imagery a monstrously shabby situatIon: a teen- aged girl is taking care of her alcoholic, almost lunatic father, a defrocked min- ister. Mrs. Entwhistle has died, having confessed on her deathbed to an affair